


Caring

by wanderingoverthewords



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Who Killed Markiplier?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 17:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13885410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingoverthewords/pseuds/wanderingoverthewords
Summary: Sometimes, Wilford invited Darkiplier to watch his interviews. Sometimes, Darkiplier accepted those invitations. But this was the first time he’d ever stepped in when a guest got rowdy; he blamed Damien and Celine for that.





	Caring

**Author's Note:**

> Characters: Darkiplier, Wilford Warfstache, Eddie Gluskin (Outlast), Dr. Iplier, The Host, Googleplier, Bingiplier, The Jim Twins; mentioned Damien, Celine, William, the Silver Shepherd, Ed Edgar, Bim Trimmer and King of the Squirrels.
> 
> Warnings: swearing, mentions of cheating partners, misogynistic slurs, bodily harm, blood, mention of death/murder, character getting triggered, mentions of Who Killed Markiplier? and all related spoilers.
> 
> Notes: Little Darkiplier and Warfstache fic I thought of based on the idea of Damien and Celine’s care for William causing conflicting feelings in Dark. Was written with a platonic relationship in mind, but can be read as Darkstache if you really want it to be (the same goes for any combination of Damien/William/Celine that you might prefer).
> 
> Characters and referenced material belong to Markiplier and Cyndago.

There were times when Wilford Warfstache invited Darkiplier to come and watch him interview the various strange characters and cryptids that the pink Ego had managed to drag onto his sofa, and there were times when Darkiplier accepted those invitations, if only to get Wilford off of his back about it.

Nine times out of ten, he bitterly declined, making it clear that he had no interest in watching Wilford ask stupid questions and then inevitably kill or severely injure his guests. But there were certain times where he said yes, and those were times that came about only after hours of contemplating, of remembering, of mental suffering at the hands of the worst qualities of the Mayor and the Seer. Where lines would blur, where memories would surface and - for even a few minutes - Wilford became William once more, just before Darkiplier had to remind himself of the reality.

No more Colonel; only Warfstache.

Darkiplier would never admit it, but those hours made him want to be in Wilford’s presence. They often led him unwillingly to Wilford’s quarters in the manor, where he would knock and tell him some bullshit excuse about hearing a noise from here or having had one of the other Egos (usually The Host) tell him that Wilford was up to something. He never spent too long there, lest Wilford tease him or get suspicious, but he spent enough time there that the fractions of Damien and Celine that reached out for William were satisfied.

After they were happy, he could go back to simply respecting the man.

When Darkiplier accepted the invitations to attend interviews, Wilford would cheer and practically drag Darkiplier there himself, lest the layered man change his mind and try to escape, and Wilford would set him up near the camera so that he could keep an eye on him. Sometimes, Darkiplier would get a chair and sometimes he wouldn’t; it depended on how big the budget was.

Darkiplier wouldn’t interact with Warfstache; Wilford would look to him instead of the camera, occasionally send him secret expressions and little smirks or winks, but Darkiplier never humoured him. He was there to get Wilford off of his back about never attending interviews, not to play.

Weirdly enough, this only humoured Warfstache more, and that had gotten Darkiplier wondering what he would do if the darker Ego _did_ play along. Probably freak him out. That made it tempting.

Or make him equally as delighted. That made it off-putting.

Today, Darkiplier was standing, hands behind his back, ignoring the humans around him as they ran lighting and did camera work, and instead just concentrated on zoning out so he could block out Wilford’s interview with one Eddie Gluskin, a mutilated man from some video game, who had, earlier, been referring to Wilford as ‘darling’ and grinning widely at him like he was a piece of meat, but was now scowling dangerously and repeatedly calling him misogynistic slurs. He had to be tied to his chair to avoid any unnecessary deaths, but Darkiplier didn’t think that a weathered skipping rope would quite cut it and was waiting for the inevitable reality that was someone getting hurt or killed.

Although, knowing Warfstache’s interviewing method, that would probably be Gluskin himself.

Darkiplier’s attempts at zoning out were constantly interrupted by Warfstache’s usual antics and that meant that he was picking up pieces of the interview that he, quite frankly, didn’t care about.

“So, this asylum that you live in…on average, how many _boos_ do you think you experience _daily?”_

Darkiplier sighed.

Why had he agreed to this again? To shut Wilford up? Great move there, Darkiplier.

Eventually, the interview was stopped to allow for an intermission and Wilford shot a finger gun at Gluskin, winked, then sauntered on over to Darkiplier, who didn’t acknowledge him as Warfstache reached his side and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Hiya, Darky! How’re you liking the interview so far, aaahhh?”

Darkiplier was watching Gluskin as the asylum patient continued staring at Wilford, calling out expletives and fighting against the bonds around his arms, and the dark Ego reached up and pushed Wilford’s arm off as he said, “He seems…very mad at you.”

“Yeeeaahh,” Wilford replied, putting his arm back around Darkiplier’s shoulders as soon as it was pushed off.

Darkiplier frowned.

“He was tellin’ me alllll about his plan to cut me open and fill me with his seed earlier,” Wilford went on, earning a grimace from the dark Ego beside him.

“He is…aware that you’re a man, right?”

“Probably!” Wilford shrugged.

Darkiplier grimaced again, watching the killer still. He didn’t think he’d seen him blink since Wilford called for a break.

“Anyways, I told him there was noooo way _that_ was happening and that he wasn’t exactly my type, and he’s been calling me a whore ever since,” Wilford finished, giving another shrug. “Me, Dark! A _whore!”_

Darkiplier glanced at his companion out of the corner of his eye. The urge to mention how many wives and girlfriends Wilford had stolen came to mind, as well as the fact that he had once managed to seduce a woman whose negative traits were now Darkiplier’s, but he held his tongue and simply muttered, “Yes…”

Wilford shook his head. “I mean…he’s kinda right, but it still _hurts.”_

Darkiplier glanced at him again, then cracked his permanently broken neck and said nothing.

A woman with a clipboard took Wilford aside to talk and Darkiplier managed to zone out again, then was brought back to reality when Wilford returned to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders once more and making him frown at the sudden contact, lurching forward with how forceful it was.

He straightened himself and fixed his suit, then grumbled, “Wilford, how much longer is this going to take? We’ve been here for hours.”

“Uhhhhhh - _dunno,_ Darky-poo,” Wilford replied, pursing his lips in thought. “Shouldn’t be much longer now, though! I’m really squeezing this info outta him, Dark! He’s cracking! Look!”

Darkiplier did look; Gluskin was still fighting against his binds, looking at Wilford like he had just murdered his mother in front of him, and the dark Ego glanced at his pink companion. “…I’d say he’s already cracked.”

“So he’s gonna _break soon!”_ Wilford chirped, then slapped Darkiplier on the back heartily and fixed his bowtie. “And _I’m just_ the _reporter_ who’s gonna break him!…Right after I go to the little reporter’s room.” He patted Darkiplier’s back again, then whistled as he sauntered on over to the far door marked with a moustachioed stickman.

Darkiplier watched him go, then rolled his eyes.

Wilford was as much of an eccentric as he was…back then, only much more insane and much more uncontrollable. Darkiplier would’ve considered this a problem if Wilford weren’t on his side, but he was, so Darkiplier didn’t really have much to worry about.

Had Wilford attacked the other Egos before? Of course he had, so not even allies were safe from his violent antics, but Darkiplier had yet to have Wilford target him. In fact, Darkiplier dared to theorise that he was the only Ego that Wilford wouldn’t go after and the knowledge of _why_ that was made Darkiplier’s frown tighten and his aura scream.

His hours of contemplation over the past earlier that day should’ve been enough to stop these thoughts for now; he didn’t need them, they served no purpose other than to hurt, they were only slithers of Damien and Celine’s consciousnesses, because they would always bring back the reality that was that Wilford didn’t remember the past, he never would and thus any connection felt between the two was a mere illusion.

William and Damien had been close friends. William and Celine had been lovers.

Wilford and Darkiplier? Allies. Egos. A relationship built on mutual respect.

This need for closeness? Those hours of contemplation and thought? Wasted. Stupid. _Pathetic._ And, one day, Darkiplier would learn to control that side of himself and there would be no more of it; the past would become but a collection of memories. Not even that - visions. Visions of lives that were no longer his. Like episodes of someone else’s lives to humour himself with.

Darkiplier’s thoughts were cut off by a sudden _snap_ and sudden cries of alarm and he raised his head to look.

The _Outlast_ character had finally broken free of the pathetic binds and was standing up from the chair Wilford had sat him in, panting hard not from exertion, but from anger.

The dark Ego definitely wasn’t surprised by this, nor was he when Gluskin reached the weapon that hadn’t even been removed from his person. Trust Wilford to let the guests keep weapons - though, Darkiplier supposed he’d be an awfully huge hypocrite if he didn’t let his guests have them when he did himself. Not that, he supposed, Warfstache cared about hypocrisy.

Just a thought.

Gluskin looked around at them all, clearly trying to locate his once beloved, and stopped to stare at Darkiplier quizzically before shaking his head with a grunt. Not the same man; very similar, but not him.

It was at that moment that Wilford decided he was finished in the bathroom and came sauntering out the door again, whistling a cheery tune as he went, and turned to shut the door.

The noise alerted Gluskin, who immediately looked over and caught sight of his target, then he pointed his knife toward Warfstache, who hadn’t yet even noticed the commotion. _“Whore!”_

Wilford froze, then slowly turned to look at Gluskin over his shoulder. “Nani?”

Gluskin gritted his teeth, shaking his head slowly as he ranted, “I _try_ and I _try,_ but nothing is ever good enough for you _ungrateful sluts._ Well, no more…” The video game character caressed his knife gently, then looked back to Wilford with the same glare. “If you don’t want to be with me…then you’ll die with the rest of them.”

And Gluskin made his move.

As the mutilated serial killer stalked toward Warfstache, Darkiplier expected him to do something helpful, like move out of the way or pull out a gun or a knife to fight back with, as was per the norm with the reporter, but the pink Ego was sticking out a finger, which was far from helpful, unless he was itching to lose it. “Listen up, _Gluskin!”_

Darkiplier’s aura crackled and broke out into a scream and the thoughts that haunted him during the quiet hours of contemplation in his quarters of the manor began to rise once more in his mind, speaking the name of a man that had long since disappeared.

“You may think you can call me a _slut_ \- and you _may_ be kinda right about that - but _I_ am _Wilford Warfstache!”_

“Wilford,” Darkiplier muttered. Why couldn’t he just be serious for once?

“And _Wilford Warfstache_ don’t take _shit_ from _no one!”_

_“Wilford.”_

“So, _you_ need to _ssstep off -”_

_“Wilford!”_

Had Wilford started reaching for a weapon then? Had he really gone to grab a gun from his pocket? It didn’t matter; the thoughts were too loud, and Darkiplier was already moving.

_Wil!_

_Wil!_

**_William!_ **

Before Darkiplier was even aware of his own actions, he was no longer standing beside the camera and was now face to face with Gluskin - now stood in front of Wilford. In those milliseconds between Darkiplier’s swift movement and the consequences of it, it occurred to the dark Ego that he really didn’t have a plan nor any idea of what exactly he would do now that he was here.

Would he grab Eddie’s wrist? Drive him even more insane with the torment of his past? Use his own abilities to take him down before he had a chance to attack?

To be honest, Darkiplier wasn’t even sure on why he was even here right now, why he had apparently run out in front of Warfstache, and he actually spent a moment to think on it and begin to blame the people of whom he was an amalgamation, but his thoughts were cut off by his own sharp gasp and guttural grunt.

The very tip of the knife’s blade shot out of Darkiplier’s back, finally stopping short now that it was stuck within flesh.

Gasps rang out throughout the studio (including one from behind him), possessions were dropped from numb hands, jaws dropped and eyes bugged out of their sockets.

Darkiplier was frozen on the spot, head tilted slightly upwards from the force, own eyes wide as this burning sensation took over his chest, a sensation he hadn’t felt since before his very own _creation,_ and he was sure he hadn’t wanted to feel it again.

“Dark…?” He heard Wilford mutter behind him. “Darky…?”

“Is _this_ who you leave me for, darling?!” Eddie was screeching, gesturing at Darkiplier wildly. “Is he more of a man than I am?! Does he make an _honest woman_ out of you?!”

The blade was wrenched out of his chest and Darkiplier doubled over in agony, stumbling from the force of the pull, then Eddie slapped a hand to his shoulder and plunged the knife into his belly.

More gasps left their audience as Eddie pulled out the knife, then stabbed it back into Darkiplier’s gut as the Ego‘s aura screamed, then pulled it out and plunged it back in. In, out, in, out, in, out, over and over, until Eddie apparently got bored and pulled the blade out for the final time, giving Darkiplier a shove to push him to the floor.

Darkiplier laid out like a corpse, limbs perfectly straight like he was fitting into a coffin, and the wounds didn’t even bleed. But now, his aura was losing control and the red and blue silhouettes began glitching and fell out of order.

His red self was screaming, hands desperately clutching at the wound in its chest, rolling and shaking in agony. His blue self laid on its side, curled up, one hand on its stomach and the other in its hair, breathing hallowed. The real Darkiplier, the body, just laid there amongst his monochrome silhouettes’ reactions to pain.

Wilford’s eyes were wide as he stared at the darker Ego, waiting for any sign that the body would get up, and he felt his stomach churn and bile rise in his throat at the strange familiarity of the scene. But how could it be familiar when Darkiplier had never gotten hurt before? When this had never happened? Darkiplier was never meant to get physically injured like this and he had _never_ been physically injured like this before; what would happen now that he had?

“Dark…?” Wilford repeated carefully, then actually flinched as Eddie suddenly stabbed into Darkiplier again, knife now clutched in his fist with the blade pointing downwards.

Gluskin’s screamed obscenities faded from his reality as Wilford continued watching the monochrome figures react to pain, watching the body laying there completely still and motionless and feeling as though there was a memory there that he could just grasp just _take_ but it was too far away and he didn’t _understand_ how there could _possibly_ be a memory like that when Darkiplier had _never_ gotten hurt like this before and when he’d _never_ paid attention to any corpses before not even when _he_ was the one who had put them there and what was his aura _doing_ and how could Wilford _stop that_ was it _bad_ was this something he needed to _help_ with should he get Dr. Iplier what was _happening_ what was _happening what was happening what was what what what whatwhatwhatwhatwhat -_

Wilford’s hand closed around the end of the knife’s handle, stopping Eddie’s attack in its tracks.

Suddenly, everything seemed heavy and everybody looked to Wilford as he slowly straightened, head ducked with his hair covering his eyes. When he raised it back up, his eyes were narrowed dangerously in a look of pure murder, but looks didn’t have to kill, for Warfstache tugged the knife from Eddie’s hand, slicing his palm, and turned it right side up.

Somebody whispered a command to run and everybody did, save for Warfstache, his injured companion and his latest victim.

 

…

 

The Iplier manor was ever-growing, ever-changing, with every Ego that was made, and every Iplier Ego had a section of the manor to call their own. Usually a corridor leading into the section, where evidence of their presence would hint at whose quarters these were (Warfstache had a blinding pink covering the walls of his corridor, Darkiplier had greyscale, the mutterings and whispers of the void and a ringing noise that got louder the closer one got to his location, The Host’s was generally devoid of light because, quite frankly, he didn’t need it - the list went on), then a few rooms for that particular Ego to call their own, where their word was law and they could say who stayed and who left.

Darkiplier had the smallest out of them all, funnily enough, with a minimum of two rooms; he was content enough with an office and not much more, the second room having been locked immediately upon the section’s creation and Darkiplier had always forbidden anyone from going inside, so nobody knew what was in there but him.

Even more surprising, mayhaps, was that Dr. Iplier had the biggest chunk of the manor, and anyone who complained about that was reminded that these fuckers hurt themselves a lot more than one would assume they did and so the good doctor (though that was up for debate) needed that many rooms to house his patients whilst they recovered.

It was here that Darkiplier was taken as soon as possible.

Because Wilford had been so busy dealing with Darkiplier’s attacker, he hadn’t taken the greyscale man here himself and instead, it had been the Silver Shepherd and Ed Edgar who had gone and collected him after The Host had suddenly started spouting the narration of Darkiplier’s attack. They were too shaken up upon returning to tell them where Warfstache had gotten to, but that was alright: The Host’s narration had explained that what Warfstache was up to wasn’t pretty and it was best everyone left it alone.

There hadn’t been much to do, since there was no bleeding to stop and no flesh to really repair, so the best Dr. Iplier had done was wrap bandages around Darkiplier’s torso (for the sake of it) and wait for him to wake up on his own accord. After that, it was just a waiting game for the auras to realign themselves and for Darkiplier to take control once again.

When Wilford had finally returned to the manor, the Silver Shepherd and Ed Edgar avoided his gaze and the pink serial killer seemed as chipper as ever, even though he was covered head to toe in blood and one of his braces had snapped off his shoulder and was dangling by his hip.

He had cheerfully asked The Host where Darkiplier was, even referring to him as ‘Hosty’ like nothing had ever happened and today was a normal day, and The Host’s narration explained to him that Darkiplier was with Dr. Iplier, but the treatment was mostly finished and he could probably go and see him now.

Wilford had replied with a cheerful “Much obliged!”, slapped The Host heartily on the back and had marched on off to Dr. Iplier’s quarters on the fourth floor. Nobody dared follow.

Some time later, Dr. Iplier stepped out of the main door to his quarters, sighing in relief as Darkiplier’s treatment was finally finished with and he could finally be rid of Warfstache’s presence. How Darkiplier put up with him all the time, what with Warfstache being some sort of right hand man to him, he didn’t know. He still hadn’t quite forgiven him for stealing his line about knowing what’s best at their last meeting…

Dr. Iplier faltered as he realised he wasn’t alone, then looked over at the Egos seated on either side of the corridor leading to his personal quarters - a makeshift waiting room for times like these where the characters waited out news of the others’ conditions. Why did he not have a waiting room _within_ his quarters?

Because he knew what was best, that was why.

Seated on one side of the corridor, on one of the white benches, were Googleplier and Bingiplier, one looking as distant and calm as always and the other looking nervous as he played with his sunglasses, bringing the arms of them up and down and making a constant snapping noise as they hit the edges of the lenses.

After a few minutes of it, Googleplier robotically reached over and set a hand over Bingiplier’s, closing his fingers over his and forcing him to stop playing with the accessory, expression tightened into silent fury and impatience.

Bingiplier sheepishly put his sunglasses back on, then turned his attention to the skateboard in his lap and began spinning a wheel instead, replacing the sound of snapping plastic with the sound of rattling plastic.

Googleplier groaned.

On the opposite side of the corridor sat The Host, who, as always, was murmuring away the narration for he and his companions’ lives, speaking of the doctor’s arrival before even he himself knew he would come out now. He’d only offered a polite nod to the androids when they’d arrived; it was difficult making conversation when you were telling the story of everyone around you.

All eyes (so just the pairs belonging to the androids) went to Dr. Iplier as he held up his writing pad and looked to them all gravely. The doctor inhaled softly, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, but…he’s dying.”

There was silence amongst them all, save for the mumblings of The Host.

Bingiplier’s expression began to crumble; Googleplier looked indifferent; The Host’s narration picked up in volume.

“…As always in these grave situations, Dr. Iplier tells the other Egos that the patient is dying. As this is nothing but a catchphrase, what the good doctor really means to say is that Darkiplier will make a full recovery. Dr. Iplier gives what is best described as ‘a shit-eating grin’ as The Host tells the other Egos this news and Bingiplier sighs in relief and informs Googleplier that he will go and tell the others -”

Bingiplier had stood up now, collecting up his skateboard, and looked to his fellow search engine. “Dude, I’m gonna go and tell the others.”

Googleplier sighed and held up one hand mechanically, gesturing to The Host. “IIIIII am _aware.”_

Bingiplier set his skateboard down and rode off on it, making pathetic kicks to the ground to get himself moving (unintentionally at a snail‘s pace), making Googleplier sigh and shake his head again. The rivalry between the search engine androids had quietened down, but it hadn’t faltered that much and Googleplier still felt pure irritation when the other android was around.

Nevertheless, he kept it under wraps, lest they irritate the currently injured Ego.

“Meanwhile, Wilford Warfstache remains by Darkiplier’s bedside, speaking animatedly to the Ego, who continues to feel weak yet still finds the energy to be annoyed with Warfstache,” The Host went on, bringing his companions’ attention to him.

“Yeah, he’s been in there a while,” Dr. Iplier said casually, shrugging a shoulder and gesturing over the other one with one thumb. “I tried to make him leave, but he refused. Kept making excuses on why he couldn’t; said he was there to help.” He gave a humoured scoff and waved one hand. “As if he went to _medical school,_ like _I_ totally did!”

Googleplier and The Host shared a look. The latter sniffed.

“Anyways,” Dr. Iplier went on. “He’s still in there, if either of you guys wanted to see him. Ask him about what happened or whatever.”

Googleplier and The Host shared another look, then both ducked their heads as they declined that offer. Both of them had seen the look of Warfstache earlier, grinning madly, speaking so cheerfully, covered in the blood of the one who had injured Darkiplier; neither of them particularly wanted to face the pink Ego after that. They would wait until he had had his time with Darkiplier, calmed himself down and maybe changed his clothing to something a lot cleaner. Maybe then, they would talk - and not about the incident either, unless Wilford gave the okay.

Couldn’t risk anything.

Dr. Iplier opened his mouth to speak once more when a crashing noise cut him off. Frowning confusedly, he looked toward the other end of the bleach white corridor, Googleplier doing the same and The Host giving a slight tilt of his head in that direction, narrating quietly all the while.

In a mess of limbs, camera equipment and brightly-coloured shirts, the Jim Twins came racing down the corridor, calling out to the Egos grouped together there. Mainly, they focused their attention on the doctor, asking questions on the patient’s condition and if it was really true that he would make a full recovery and if Dr. Iplier would be available for a full interview and if they could perhaps go inside the room in which Darkiplier was being kept.

Googleplier gave a discontented hum and The Host ducked his head again.

The Jims spoke frantically to the doctor, one voice yelling over the other and then the other over that one and then back again. As they reached him, thankfully, two voices became one, but the volume of Field Reporter Jim’s voice certainly made up for the lack of Cameraman Jim’s voice, which only came out as little mumbles about trying to get a good angle and grunts as he shifted the camera around.

Dr. Iplier’s eyebrows knitted together, overwhelmed by all the loud questions and having a microphone and camera shoved in his face, finding it hard to understand them. He caught a brief break when Field Reporter Jim turned to the camera to speak to it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow associate Jim and I are currently at Dr. Iplier’s quarters in Iplier manor, where we’re facing our biggest story since the tale of the dog and the cucumber! Our main man Darkiplier is being kept in Dr. Iplier’s quarters after suffering a vicious attack from video game character, Eddie Gluskin! And I believe the good doc himself is ready to give a report!”

“I’m not -” Dr. Iplier tried, only to be cut off as the microphone was shoved back into his face.

“Doctor, doctor! Is it true that Darkiplier‘s injuries are life-threatening? Is it true that this incident happened because he was protecting one Misterrr Wilford Warfstache? What do you think this could mean for the pair? What about us other Egos? Are we all gonna have video game characters coming after us? Are they gonna attack us in our sleep or wait until we’re out in the open? Will they get more points that way? What about the state of Darkiplier’s attack itself? Was it a shooty? A stabby? What about a clunky? Maybe a ha-chop? Were _demons_ involved?!”

 _ **“Enough,”** _ Googleplier cut in, calm as ever yet glitching voice booming, and the twins turned to him. _“Sit down_ and ziiiiiiip your _mouths,_ if you’re goiiiiing to **stay.”**

With the twins distracted, Dr. Iplier’s gaze flew to each Ego before he took this moment of silence to sneak back into his quarters, inching back slowly until he could open the door, step back inside and shut it behind him.

The Jims took at least a full minute to realise he was even gone.

Field Reporter Jim pouted whilst Cameraman Jim whined softly, then both dejected twins hung their heads miserably and Field Reporter Jim whimpered, “Stay low, Jim…”

The twins got down on all fours and dragged themselves across the floor like spiders that were missing legs, then got up and sat beside The Host, the reporter seating himself next to the blind narrator and the cameraman beside him.

There was silence between them all, then The Host turned his head slightly toward the Jim Twins. “…It was a stabby.”

Both Jims perked up immediately, both gasping loudly and happily in unison, then they were climbing over each other to get even closer to The Host, questions flying out of their mouths, and The Host smiled gently and waited for them to settle themselves before he gave them answers.

The Jims made him feel the most needed, the most wanted: it must’ve been handy, he theorised, having a narrator who knew everything like The Host around when no one else could be bothered to humour the twins by accepting their request for an interview. And while they were a bit rowdy, a bit awkward to interact with, The Host enjoyed helping them.

After all, what did a narrator love more than having someone to listen to them?

There was also something humorous about the way Googleplier was now glaring at him for making the Jims return to their rowdy selves, so that was a bonus.

 

…

 

“…and then I say to him -”

“Wilford.”

“No, no, noooo!” Wilford smirked in amusement, arching a brow and setting his hands on his hips as he shook his head at the man laying before him on the bed, whose shirt and blazer were open, tie hanging around his neck, and his torso was wrapped up in bandages that didn‘t follow him into his greyscale and glitching. The bed he laid upon had a thin, dirty sheet and a single, tiny pillow.

Darkiplier hoped he would be out of here soon.

“That’s not what I saaaiiid! Pay attention, Darky, it’s _me_ talking here! Anyways, I say to him, ‘Ya see whose name is up in lights, Bim?’ and he says ‘Sure’ - and, y’know, it’s my name, right, Dark?”

Darkiplier sighed and didn’t reply.

“Exactly. And so I point that out and then I say ‘So that means I’m in charge of this game show and I say that, if they want the million dollars, they gotta be willing to sacrifice one of their loved ones!’. And then he got all mad at me for _‘stealing his idea’,”_ Wilford used his fingers for quotation marks, rolling his eyes heavenwards, then he politely crossed one leg over the other and set his hands in his lap. “So I tickled him with my knife a little to cheer him up until the doc took him away.” He shrugged and shook his head, like he thought of that as silly, and went on, “Complete overreaction, Dark.”

“Fascinating,” Darkiplier replied, with as much sarcasm as a technically dead man could.

“I knew you’d like that story!” Wilford chirped, ignoring the next sigh that passed through Darkiplier’s lips, and the pink Ego rested his elbow beside Darkiplier on the bed, propping his chin up in his hand. “Wanna hear another?”

_“No.”_

“Okay, here goes -”

Darkiplier groaned irritably, glitching in barely held back fury. His monochrome selves separated again as pain shot through him from the sites of his wounds, his red self going to clutch at the wounds in its belly and curling in on itself in agony and his blue self reaching toward Wilford like it wanted to hold his hand for comfort or for him to grab Dr. Iplier to get help. The real Darkiplier only hissed in pain, shutting his eyes and tilting his head back, waiting for his red and blue selves to join him again.

Wilford blinked, watching the selves come together and join back with the body, and then relaxed upon his own hand once more as Darkiplier regained control of himself. “Never seen ya do that before, Darky. What’s goin’ on?”

Darkiplier exhaled and tilted his head to crack his permanently broken neck. “Nothing.”

“Well, it’s not everyday that you’re freaking out like that. Not even when the King of the Squirrels ransacked your room lookin’ for peanut butter!”

Darkiplier narrowed his eyes and growled lowly at the memory of the incident.

“And over someone going after little ol’ me!” Wilford sounded smug now. He looked it too, the way his lips stretched so widely from underneath his pink moustache and his eyes became half-lidded as he stared at Darkiplier. “I’m _touched,_ hehehe.”

 _“Wil…”_ Darkiplier muttered warningly.

“Whaaaat?” Wilford chuckled, then shook his head. “Don’t you worry about Gluskin, though, Darky! I gave _him_ a firm talking to! Told him there’d be none of _that_ bullshit on one o’ _my_ sets!”

“Is that whose blood you’re covered in?”

“Yuuuup,” Wilford said casually, as if he wasn’t coated in red. It soaked his clothing, making his sleeves stick to him, and stained the skin of his face and hands. It was fairly difficult to tell due to the contrasting colours, but it was stuck in his hair, too. “It was an accident, though, Dark, I swear.”

Darkiplier pretended hearing that didn‘t sting. “I know, Wilford.”

“Just happened!”

“Hm. He won’t be appearing in the sequel, then.”

“Hopefully not!”

Darkiplier hummed and shifted to try and get more comfortable, tired of laying flat on his back and wanting to sit up a bit, but that plan proved stupid when pain shot through him again.

Once more did his auras split. The blue one was curled up into a ball, as it had been when Darkiplier had first been injured, and was pulling at its hair and grimacing in agony. The red one was screaming again, but had stolen the blue aura’s gesture of reaching out to Wilford for help.

Wilford fixated upon the red aura’s body language, eyes widening at the unfamiliar gesture from Darkiplier, and, slowly, almost unknowingly, his right hand crept up from his lap and began to rise in to the air.

As it did so, the blue aura flickered and glitched, then joined the red aura in reaching for the pink Ego, though it was sobbing rather than screaming. The auras were coming together again, the blue figure half within Darkiplier’s chest and half within the red aura’s back, and Darkiplier twitched uncomfortably beneath them both.

Wilford’s hand moved slowly through the air, gaze unable to leave the hands of the monochrome silhouettes, which had become one even when the rest of their bodies hadn’t yet joined together, and his fingers splayed as they neared the auras’.

The tips of Wilford’s fingers touched the tips of the auras’, it was like Warfstache was touching static itself but it was cold and hot at the same time, and the screaming and sobbing of Darkiplier’s combining auras stopped. Their mouths remained open, but they stared at Warfstache like he had stared at them, then their gaze went to the three hands in the middle of them just as his had done. Their mouths opened wider the closer the hands got, like they wanted to say something, but then Warfstache moved to intertwine their fingers and the auras glitched and flickered and blinked briefly out of sight before returning to their rightful place behind Darkiplier’s body, continuing to glitch as Darkiplier resumed trying to gain control of himself as he healed.

Silence overtook the two Egos.

Wilford blinked, confused and alarmed, and he looked down at his hand, overturned it so he could see the palm, and stared at it like he was trying to check if Darkiplier’s auras had had any effect on him. When he raised his head again, he saw that Darkiplier was staring at him out of the corner of his eye.

A few more moments of silence went on, then Wilford repeated his earlier question, “…What’s goin’ on, Dark?”

Darkiplier stared some more. Deep within his mind were thoughts that he tried time and time again to keep back, the ones that surfaced every so often and bothered him for hours on end, that made him want to be near Wilford. The thoughts of the two entities he used to be, their feelings; they were calling for William, spouting out what had really happened, asking him to hold their hands once more, _please, Wil._

He pushed these thoughts far back, swallowed thickly, then replied, “What’s going on…is that I’m uncomfortable in Dr. Iplier’s quarters. I just want to be back in my office, so…may I ask that you go and get the doctor so that I can _leave,_ Wil?”

A gasp left the pink Ego. “You’re uncomfortable?!” Wilford exclaimed, like it had only just occurred to him, and Darkiplier’s stare turned into a glare for not noticing sooner, for pointing out the glaringly (haha) obvious. “Well, why didn’t ya say so?!”

The pink Ego stood up from his stool suddenly, spinning on his heel with one index finger raised in to the air. “I’ll do better than that, Darky! Got just the thing for you! Gonna getcha one of _my_ pillows! Put me to sleep, no problem, hold on -”

“No - Wilford -”

Wilford disappeared out the door, which was apparently close to the main door leading to Dr. Iplier’s section of the manor, for Darkiplier could still hear him as he called out, “Okay, Google!”

There was a familiar synthetic beat as Googleplier was activated for objective-giving.

“Go fetch a pillow from my room for Darky-poo! He’s uncomfortable! And make it one of the big ones! Big guy’s had a rough day!” There was a pause. “Oh! Hey, Hosty!”

Darkiplier frowned. Of course, The Host would be there…He was probably going to want to talk to Darkiplier about this whole thing later, given all that they’d talked about in the past. The Host was remarkably good at keeping secrets, so - while Wilford seemed like Darkiplier’s right hand man - the blind narrator was the only one Darkiplier ever dared to go to if he ever needed to…vent, he supposed was the word for it.

To be honest, The Host more often came to him when he sensed something was amiss in the manor and, somehow, he always squeezed it out of him. Darkiplier didn’t know if he hated or respected The Host for that.

Either way, he wasn’t looking forward to that talk later.

 _“Haha!_ You’re a _reeeaal_ riot, Hosty!” Wilford was calling over his shoulder as he returned to the room, bright grin on his face. “TTYL, buddy-boo, TTYL!” Then he shut the door behind him and turned to Darkiplier with a look of bewilderment. “Dark, that guy is _weird.”_

With no reply from Darkiplier, Wilford sauntered on over to the darker Ego and leaned over him, holding up an index finger. “Sent Google on his way to fetch ya a pillow! He’ll be back soon.” He paused, then looked over his shoulder suspiciously. _“Hopefully._ Better not be messin’ up my room…”

“It can’t _get_ any messier.”

“I know!” He looked back to Darkiplier and smiled widely, then poked the tip of his nose, causing the dark Ego to frown bitterly at him, his auras flickering and glitching behind him in reaction to his anger. “But don’t you worry, Darky. Gonna getcha comfy soon!”

Darkiplier huffed. “You know how you could make me comfortable, Wilford?”

“How?” Wilford grinned and set his chin in his hands, like a child excited to hear a story.

_“Go and get Dr. Iplier so I can get out of here.”_

“Oop. No can do, Darky-poo. He’s dealin’ with Ed and Shepherd right now.” He shrugged and waved a hand. “Apparently, they’re all shaken up over _somethin’_ they saw earlier, I dunno…”

Darkiplier growled.

“So the pillow’s gonna hafta do!” Wilford added, then faltered and looked over his shoulder again. “Come ta think of it…Google’s been gone a _while…”_

“He really hasn’t -”

“I’m gonna go see what he’s up to!” Wilford declared, spinning on his heel and marching over to the door, grumbling some more about Googleplier messing up his room and about how he’d better not be touching Wilford’s stockings because they _wouldn’t look good on him,_ but he had a nice corset he could borrow -

“Wil.”

Wilford paused, put on alert at the tone in Darkiplier’s voice. Darkiplier was always stern with him, being the grumpiest out of the Iplier Egos, but something about this particular tone was gentler, dare he say soft, and it made him stop in his tracks.

The pink Ego looked over at his injured companion; Darkiplier was still staring up at the ceiling, not looking toward Warfstache at all. Wilford tried not to read into it. “Yeeeesss?”

There was a brief moment of silence, then a hesitant question: “…Are you alright?”

Wilford’s mouth fell open and he couldn’t quite tell if that was out of shock or if he’d gone to reply. When his senses (whatever tiny fragment of them he still had) returned to him and reality hit that, yes, _Darkiplier_ really did just ask how he was, Wilford’s only response was to press the pads of his fingers to his chin and pull off a perfect imitation of the cat emoticon.

When his question was met with silence, Darkiplier hesitated once more before he glanced over at Wilford, the movement of his head slow and twitchy as he fought against his own actions, and he scoffed and looked away again as he saw the expression.

Of course, Warfstache couldn’t take this seriously; it was just a _question,_ why couldn’t he just be…civil?

“You can go now,” Darkiplier grumbled and frowned deeply when this was met with a chuckle.

“Suuuure, Darky! I’ll go getcha that pillow, see where ol’ Google-Bot got to!” Wilford ducked out of the room, then poked his head back in and called, “Don’t you go anywhere!”

Darkiplier hummed and the door shut once more, leaving the Ego alone.

As the distraction of Wilford Warfstache disappeared, the thoughts that Darkiplier had pushed to the back of his mind began to rear up again, showing him the past times with William, making him crave Wilford’s return, and Darkiplier tried to pretend that they belonged to different people. That they weren’t him; weren’t what he once was, weren’t what he still was.

Darkiplier pushed them back once again, cracking his broken neck back into place, and shifted to get slightly more comfortable. His auras flickered behind him before jumping above him again, both screaming and reaching for the door - reaching for Warfstache.

Darkiplier growled, gritted his teeth and pulled his auras back into him, setting them in to their normal places. With another crack of his neck to realign it, Darkiplier exhaled through his nose and shut his eyes to think.

He had let himself slip earlier. He had let the shreds of his past lives take over, running over to protect Warfstache like that, as if Wilford even needed protecting, as if Darkiplier even wanted to protect him. He had let himself be more…human. Weak. Silly. Unlike himself. And now, he was left angry and embarrassed.

_Just… **stop it.** He will never remember them. You should know that by now._

_I do know that. But…they remember him. **We** remember him. And…that’s enough._

Darkiplier’s eyes flicked open as Warfstache’s voice reached his ears, calling to him about pillows and how much he would enjoy this, and the dark Ego tilted his head to look as the door burst open and Wilford bounced into the room, followed shortly by a disgruntled-looking Googleplier.

Darkiplier focused on Wilford’s delighted expression as he carried an aforementioned pillow above his head.

_It has to be._


End file.
